Funny
by oldstone
Summary: Post-ep for 6.06 Brave Hearts. Ignores spoilers for future episodes.


**Notes:** Original posted on LJ on 10-28-09.

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**Funny**

In most ways, his office was just like he'd left it: the lights still on, his salmon button-up shirt still draped over one of the visitors' chairs across from his desk, pencils he'd failed to propel into the trash can still scattered across the carpet, the signed forms for the state licensing board still on spot next to where he sat before Cuddy's words had shifted a gear into motion in his mind. Cuddy was still there herself.

House slowed to a stop in the hallway, cane at his side, and watched her through the glass door. Leaning far back in his desk chair, she was hitting his ball off the wall in an ungainly manner, brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration. He smiled inwardly as the ball hit the wall at a bad angle and Cuddy launched herself into an upright position in a vain attempt to catch it. She bolted out of the chair and let her eyes helplessly follow the ball as it bounced off the cabinet on the opposite wall, shaking it slightly, then back against his desk, knocking several objects of his desktop clutter over and onto the floor.

House pushed the door open and crossed the first half of the room in time to scoop the ball right out of the air a few inches above the ground. When he drew himself back up his full height, Cuddy smiled at him sheepishly, clasping and unclasping her hands with something that looked akin to stage fright.

"I'm no good at ball sports."

House considered making an easy ball joke in response but he held his tongue. He kept his eyes on her as he limped over to where she was standing to place the ball back on its usual spot on his desk. He balanced his cane against the side of the desk and fished his shirt from the chair, looking back at Cuddy as he slipped it on. She swept her hair from her face with a little jerk of her head, keeping her eyes locked on his hands buttoning up his shirt, but, as though sensing the presence of their famed and only just recently discussed tension hanging between them, she cleared her throat and lifted her eyes to meet his. She clearly had a purpose or she wouldn't still be here, House reasoned, and he arched his eyebrows at her to manifest his expectancy. She clenched her jaw; whatever it was she saw in his face made her cast her eyes downward again. Having grown accustomed to Cuddy's straightforward cut-to-the-crap attitude ages ago, it took House a moment to realize that perhaps this time he was going to have to pry it out of her. When he spoke, it was exactly at the same time with her.

"Did you need anything else?"

"I take it you cured the patient?"

She chuckled through her nose, probably at their mutual clumsiness, in a way that House assumed a heartier person would've found sweet, or lovely even. But there was something off-key about it, blatantly evident on the exterior. The mirth slowly died on her lips when she noticed his expression was going to remain deadpan.

He finished buttoning up and reached for his ball again. "Saccular aneurysm; he'll be fine after brain surgery." He turned away from her, grabbing his thigh with his free hand as he made his way over to his Eames chair in the corner with the usual laboured awkwardness. "That's not the reason you waited here though," he observed and, while he lowered himself into the recliner, he found himself met with a nice view down the front of Cuddy's dress as she squatted down to pick up the stuff she'd knocked off his desk. He watched in awe when she gracefully eased herself up again without grabbing anything for support—in those heels that was really something. There really was nothing unladylike about her.

She neatly rearranged his things and bent over again to gather up his pencils one by one, undoubtedly in order to buy herself some more time to form an answer. She held the pencils in her hands and tapped the ends against the desktop to nudge them in a perfectly aligned stack—House couldn't see for her back was turned to him but he could envision it from the dull sounds of the rubber erasers against the glass tabletop. She pivoted sharply then, having gathered up enough nerve to finally face him properly. She drew in a breath and smiled humourlessly. "I am uncomfortable with you."

"Well, I'll be damned," House said matter-of-factly, spinning the ball on the tip of his index finger. From the corner of his eye he saw her advancing a few steps towards him, fingers uneasily interlocked.

"And I've been thinking—"

"Really? How did that go for you?"

She heaved a sigh and widened her eyes, cocking her head to the side and offering him a smile that somehow conveyed both fondness and mild exasperation at his impertinence. House, who had started passing the tennis ball from his one hand to the other, paused his movements. For reasons too unfathomable, even to himself, he loved testing Cuddy's patience. He found himself going through lengths to do exactly what he knew would annoy her, just to see her fume. But right now he willed himself to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. He didn't want to piss her off now that things were getting interesting.

He tossed her the ball and was pleased Cuddy reacted fast enough to catch it, the metaphor successfully communicated. "Sorry," he said, "continue."

She briefly looked down at the ball in her hands and when she raised her eyes to his face again, most of her anxiety seemed to have vanished in thin air. "I've been thinking," she resumed, fixing him with an unyielding stare now, "about what you said earlier. About how I make you feel funny."

Neither of them averted their eyes when she dropped her hands to her sides, letting the ball slip in the process. House figured it produced a dull thud or two when it bounced off the ground, because it would be logical to assume so, but the current topic combined with the sudden intensity of Cuddy's stare had him hearing nothing but his own heartbeat.

"And..." She inched closer with admirable unconcern and the air around them had changed so quickly, it made House's head reel. The next thing he knew Cuddy slung a leg over his lap and straddled him in one fluid motion, the flaring skirt of her dress allowing her to position her pelvis flush with his groin. Bold, House thought, even for Cuddy, but she in midst of all of this, she actually seemed confident about her own actions, whereas House himself had trouble believing this was their palpable dimension.

His neck strained to turn his face towards the hall to reconfirm their privacy, but then she leaned her head towards him until mere inches rested between their mouths and he could smell her breath, an unmistakable trace of mint tea still perceptible. "I have to admit you do make me feel kind of funny too."

If he wasn't aroused before, he damn well was now. His hands seemed to move of their own accord, brushing up the outside of her thighs, and he awaited her next step with bated breath. When she made no move to close the distance between their mouths, House took the liberty of moving his hands up her waist, settling them high on her ribcage, a jolt of excitement passing through him as his thumbs make contact with the outer swell of her breasts. Her own heart was beating fast enough for him to become aware of it now, both though sense and sound.

"Still uncomfortable then?" he found himself murmuring.

"No, I'm good," he felt, rather than heard, her say. He lurched forwards to capture her mouth but she recoiled, hands pressed against his shoulders, avoiding his lips against hers by millimetres. Even in their current situation they had to play their cat-and-mouse game. He was sure though that she fully well realized she'd hazarded too far within his reach to pull back now. If anyone could see them now, he thought, but it was after hours and the floor was empty. Cuddy would never have followed through on this little escapade if it had been any other way. She would've barely had the nerve to touch him, especially with the rumours milling around regarding their sex life. Their nonexistent sex life, House corrected himself dolefully, before he was reminded of the fact that there was only the fabric of Cuddy's panties separating him from her. The thought alone made him ache in new places.

Cuddy chose that moment to lean in and tilt her head to the side to kiss him properly for the first time. House reacted rapidly, reaching a hand in her hair to cup the back of her head and keep her their mouths fused. He felt her jaw move slightly and her lips parted under the pressure of his. The fingers of his one hand tangling with the fragrant waves of her hair, he used his other hand to undo the single button on her cardigan she'd bothered to fasten, deftly so, in hopes that she wouldn't notice his attempt to take this to the next level, scared she would pull back when she'd realize. She did notice, naturally, but House was pleased when he felt her weight shifting slightly and her hands leave his shoulders to shed the blue sweater, struggling to keep her lips from leaving his in the process.

Her arms were icy—House felt them brush against his as she fumbled between them for the buttons on his shirt, the one he'd put on only minutes before. And suddenly it felt as though it had been hours, or days even, since he walked back to his office to find her there. House sought out her eyes with his and they shared a knowing look. They were doing this.

Before long, both his dress shirt and T-shirt had joined the crumpled mass that was Cuddy's cardigan on the floor and Cuddy's dress had been unzipped at the back and the front was down and House moved his lips along the length of her throat towards her breastbone. He felt her release the button on his jeans from its catch, and, taking it as a cue to rid her of another article of her clothing as well, his arms encircled her waist as he reached behind her to unclasp her bra. He helped her further taking it off and, as they came together again for another languishing kiss, House found himself wondering if Cuddy regretted the amount of sadness that had overtaken them over the span of twenty years as much as he did.

She let the kiss die, sucking on his bottom lip, as their hands collided between her legs, both intent on pushing her panties aside and getting him inside of her at last. "Oh God," Cuddy said in a low voice and it was the first time since they'd started kissing that either of them spoke. When she started moving, their rhythm was awkward. The armchair wasn't exactly suitable for their current endeavours, but it worked. Whereas House's hands remained firmly in place on her thighs, egging her movements on, Cuddy's hands were all over him, brushing across the spare hairs on his chest, over his shoulders, up his neck and over his scalp as she bent her head down to meet him for a kiss mid-air. They kissed until their heads spun with the lack of oxygen. Their eyes locked, pupils dilated, the intimacy of it almost unbearable. House ran his hand up her inner thigh to where flesh entered flesh and her back arched when he found what he was looking for.

They started moving faster now, each collision of their hips met with a high-pitched "_Oh_," from Cuddy. The ferocity of her thrusts increasing, she grabbed onto the backrest of the chair on either side of his head to steady herself. They climaxed soon after one another and Cuddy keeled over, slumping against his broad frame. He felt her nose against the shell of his ear, his own body slackening with release. Her breath was hot on his neck and she visibly shook.

Minutes ticked by and they sat still. They did not move, they did not make a sound. Later, at home—or Wilson's home, rather—House wouldn't mention the incident. He wouldn't think about the things he could've said to her, had _wanted_ to say to her.

He wouldn't tell her good morning the next day without dulcifying it with the usual obnoxious comments. He wouldn't catch her looking at him fondly. Any attempt she would make to talk about it, he would ignore or blatantly shoot down. Perhaps to scavenge what little hope he had left.

Or perhaps just because there was nothing else to do.


End file.
